


BBCSH 'Hand's On' [PG-13]

by tigersilver



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hand holding, as a learned art. Hand holding, as comfort. Hand held, as prelude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBCSH 'Hand's On' [PG-13]

Author: [](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/profile)[**tigersilver**](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/)  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing: S/J  
Word Count: 4,000  
Warnings: Fluff. No specific time. A small something, 'cause why not write one of these as well? I am traversing the paths of my betters, folks. Here's my personal take on this trope: John Watson's nightmares. Sherlock's reaction.

  
  


BBCSH  ‘Hands On’

The first night together at the flat share on Baker Street there’s nothing. Nor the next. The third night there’s a ringing shout and a muffled thump at around one o’clock but Sherlock hardly heeds it as he’s playing a composition of his own devising. 

The fourth night nothing again. 

The fifth night there’s that deathly little silence around three o’clock when even London seems to pause and concentrate only on its collective breathing, a great beast resting, lungs drawing deep and gaspy in the drizzle. It’s so quiet, so still. Quiet enough to detect the slightest whimper. From up the stairs, in John’s room. 

Sherlock sets down his latest informative text and goes to listen at the door, one ear pressed up tight against it. Another pathetic little sound from inside has him frowning, wide pale brow wrinkling. The next invites him to burst into the room. 

“John!” he calls out, straining to see in the half-light, reaching forward as he stumbles over John’s discarded trainers. “John, John, wake up!”  There’s a lump on the bed, blanketed, and it’s thrashing.

John’s out of bed, on his feet and shoving the knob end of his useless cane at Sherlock’s throat before either of them knows it. The whining whimper is replaced by a decidedly nasty growl. And it’s a firm, hard pressure he uses; means business. Sherlock chokes a bit as the cane end digs into his skin right at his Adam’s apple then grabs at the makeshift weapon and attempts to force it aside. It hardly wavers. 

“John, really,” he protests, swallowing bile, “I was only—you’re dreaming. Wake up, damn it.” 

“Wha? Oh… _ooooh_.” John gasps and gabbles, swaying, blinking, the rubbered tip of the cane dropping down to rest on the floor, at last disarmed. “Sh’lock? Sorry…sorry. Niii’mare…yeah,” he slurs. “G’night.” 

The cane drops quietly to the carpet, graying out of existence. 

He stumbles backward to his bed, falls into it gracelessly, hauls at the duvet and rolls neatly away, presenting a nightshirt-clad spine to Sherlock, rumpled and stripey as his rugby kit. Sherlock’s not positive his new flatmate’s ever even fully awoken. Chances are he hasn’t.

Nightmares, then. He should’ve suspected. He shrugs philosophically as he departs, shutting the door quietly behind him.  No matter. 

For another little while there’s not a peep from John when he’s sleeping. Sherlock nearly elides the whole experience from his head as trivial but then…he doesn’t. He’s deduced a fair amount about his new colleague but it’s always wise to know more. The man’s in his living space. He shoots people. And John isn’t one to speak much of himself. His blog’s sparse and not very interesting. 

For a bit they are busy, day and night. No extraneous sounds issue from the upper reaches of 221B.

It’s the next lull that brings them on again: tiny noises, needy—sad. Sherlock’s hearing is sharp. When he goes up the steps it’s carefully so he can ensure that it truly is John responsible for them and not some abandoned animal. They seem so out of place for the John Watson he’s come to know, even if he knows the man only superficially. 

The door’s locked this time. Sherlock tries it carefully and debates internally for a moment. Finally contents himself with laying the flat of one palm against the door panel, right next to his listening ear, and waiting it out. He’d rather not risk startling John into reflex action again; clearly the man’s dangerous even with a cane. 

The whole incident continues only for a few moments. Then he hears John gurgle and the rustle of blankets and creak of bedsprings indicating he has just sat bolt upright. There’s a bout of heavy breathing,  a ragged panting, which slows swiftly. And then the whisper of cloth and a body shifting about in it, nestling back into sleep.  A slight snore, not loud enough to be really called one. 

Sherlock goes away without ever seeing John that night. In the morning he hardly needs the science of deduction to tell him all about the experience his new flatmate’s endured the night previous. It’s clear in bloodshot eyeballs, the bruises under them and  the slump of John’s shoulders. The droop of his well-cut lips speaks volumes. 

He says nothing as they sip tea desultorily, which he believes is the height of restraint. But his mind whirs, fizzing about with snippets of ideas, scraps of solutions. He’s egged John sufficient to overcome the leg, which was of benefit to both of them. What might be done with the quandary of persistent nightmares? 

John should sleep; he’s the one always going on about how normal humans require it. 

Lestrade texts. Mycroft sends another bit of leg-work their way. Dr. Watson goes off to his locum work and comes home again. There’s telly and the comforting and continual squabbles over Sherlock’s nutrition. There’s routine, which is domestic and sometimes boring and takes a bit of getting accustomed. He deduces his new doctor friend whenever he’s not busy elsewhere but John is a very private man. Not that he isn’t garrulous at times and quite friendly, but it seems he’d rather not dwell on himself. Even with prodding Sherlock learns very little more than what he already knows. 

The whimpers at three a.m. continue, even though they are pulled into minor cases and are both often run off their feet. Sherlock develops a routine of his own. At first he’s tried playing his instrument softly, partly to drown out the sounds—they are disturbing—and partly to soothe them. That’s ineffective, overall. Perhaps John can’t hear, perhaps he doesn’t appreciate music. Then he returns to his nightly venture up the short stairwell and his quite intent listening, palm flat, ear planted solidly against the wood, seeking every last little vibration and audible clue to John Watson’s state of mind. He doesn’t attempt to enter again. The door is stubbornly locked against him each night anyway. 

Useless. It’s all useless. Even with all the strength of his personal will channeled through the tips of his fingers and into the faceless painted panel of the door, Sherlock can’t seem to influence John’s brainwaves through the barrier. And he certainly can’t barge in and wake John up forcibly every night; studies rule against it. 

Sherlock’s frustrated intensely so he turns to other venues. Plumbs the depths of his memories in desperation, seeking out what remains of his deconstructed childhood. All his research on the sort of recurrent dreams John’s experiencing indicate that the patient is the one who must take some sort of positive action to quell them: breathing exercise, yoga, diet, what have you. In every case, change must arise from within. Classic case of ‘physician, heal thyself’ excepting John Watson doesn’t seem to be wanting to do so. 

Sherlock knows he’s not likely to be able to effect change on John without his knowledge again; that only worked the once, with the leg. And if he can’t do it using subterfuge and he can’t will John a peaceful sleep straight through the slab of painted panel between them, there simply must be another solution. There should be five or ten, really, but he’ll take what he can get at this point. Those contained breathy little whimpers are slaying him. He can’t endure much longer. 

It takes a bit but he recalls it all at last, what Mummy did for him after Papa passed, when Mycroft was away at uni. She’d come to his room, somehow managing to hear his distress even from a floor and two corridors away, and enter quietly to sit, take up his hand and simply hold it. And he’d wake just enough to disrupt whatever it was that had him coiled and caught and then drift off once more, secure for a little while, the monsters that inhabited his waking dreams banished for the night. Never said a word, did Mummy, not during, not before, not after, not on all the mornings after when Sherlock was sullenly poking at his steel-cut oatmeal and half-grapefruit but yet—the therapy had been silent but quite successful. 

The next night he picks the lock, a simple matter. But he enters with a firm step of slippered feet and decided swish of his wrapper. He wants John Watson’s dreaming brain to hear him, even if unconsciously, and to recognize his presence on some subterranean level. And he’s not looking to be caught out with a cane-end again. The man’s rather lethal for a shrimpy sort. Sherlock’s learnt to respect that. 

He slips onto the mattress, perching lightly, and gropes for one of John ‘s hands. Takes it between both his own and enfolds it carefully, ignoring the grinding pain when surgeon-and-soldier’s fingers crush his knuckles together. 

“John,” he says aloud, just the once and very low and deep, which is breaking Mummy’s tradition but for an excellent cause: he needs John to have this one fact sink fixed in deep and incontrovertible. John Watson’s not alone, not anymore.  Sherlock could’ve expected Mummy to come to him—mothers do that sort of thing, don’t’ they?—but John’s never likely expecting anyone who care to come through for him. Sherlock simply has to make John know that someone has, indeed, even if it’s on a completely subliminal level.  

He grips in return, not caring if the hand clasp they engage in is actually rather a brutal experience. Waits patiently till his friend’s twitchy initial resistance fades away, along with those god-awful muttery-whimpering noises.  Sits fifteen minutes perfectly still, not even tapping a foot or sighing out his boredom, till he’s satisfied his doctor friend is again truly sleeping the sleep of the just-and-the-good and not likely to fall back into the pit of darkest Afghanistan or whatever else it is haunting him this night. 

It’s not immediate, not a one-shot cure-all, but Sherlock sees instantly that his blogger seems a little brighter-eyed and cheerier the next day. He smiles to himself, perfectly pleased with his own brilliance, though he makes certain to hide his pleasure behind the screen of John’s borrowed laptop. 

It goes on—and on. John Watson still has ghastly nightmares and Sherlock Holmes continues to allot a half-hour every night to holding the man’s hand and soothing him through them. True, the bouts are becoming briefer and less often but they are still on and especially when there’s a long stretch between cases. 

Sherlock finds he doesn’t mind it. It’s not his thing; not an act he’d usually commit in the usual course of events, but it’s alright, he supposes.  Besides, he’s learning to employ the time efficiently, holding mental conversations with the sleeping John, his brain summoning up what his partner would likely say in response as Sherlock ponders a cold case or a diversionary puzzle. So it’s not a bad thing, really, and he’s grown accustomed to it. A little surprised John’s never said anything about it but then, a person who suffers from nightmares of the depth and severity of John Watson’s isn’t necessarily tuned in to the reality about him. That’s the point, isn’t it? That John’s trapped, suffering. Sherlock’s just…just offering him a brief out, that’s all. Bit of a lifeline. And it’s for the good of both of them, really. He can’t expect John to provide all Sherlock needs him to provide if he’s continually REM sleep-deprived. 

It goes on and eventually Sherlock notes he’s not merely holding John’s hand, he’s rubbing the skin of it. Circling the pad of his thumb on the back where there are strong tendons thrusting up under skin, fingering the webbing, delicate and golden, between John’s thumb and the side of his Mons Venus. Touching more than merely clasping in a semi-professional, almost nurse-like manner. Which is again _fine_ , as it allows him practical experience with the many small bones of a human hand, sorting out how they go together in reality as opposed to intellectually or as part of an inanimate corpse or diagramme. 

All to the good, as John would say. No worries. 

It goes on, and one night—after at least four days and nights straight awake over a case and far too much caffeination cumulative—Sherlock slouches where he sits perched and ends up half-curled along the very bitter edge of John’s mattress. Still holding John’s hand tightly. When he starts awake it’s to the dawn chorus of sparrows and John’s fast asleep, face lax in the pale watery light of London’s workaday morning. He removes himself promptly from the bed and the room and puts his lapse instantly out of his mind. It wasn’t as though it was deliberate. 

He’ll not mind it, then. 

John never says a word. 

When it happens again, quite soon after and with no case to account for it, Sherlock has a slightly more difficult time ignoring his error. It _is_ a mistake; he’s not in John’s room for any reason other than to provide John some practical aid. John sleeping peacefully is rather a decent sight—bracing—but that’s immaterial. He’d be glad of a chance to provide help to any man he could honestly call friend; he’s not a machine, really. That he has only one of these to his name is not important. Popular culture and lore indicate that a man’s friends are his true treasures. He’s only been taking especial good care of his own personal trove, that’s all. And he’s only fallen into sleep in John’s bed because his own body has stupidly failed him, now and again. It’s obviously an aberration and not a habit. 

He makes a note to take longer daylight naps on the nights when it seems likely John will experience a nightmare. 

He takes the naps to offset the possibility of dozing off inappropriately, of course—John smiles at him when he wakes and seems pretty chuffed over it, bustling about and smiling, offering to make supper—but he still nods off when he’s holding John’s hand within two of his own at three of a morning. It’s inexcusable, yes, but it’s happening. His own body’s turned traitor.

He can’t not go up the steps, either. He can’t _not_ hold John’s hand. John Watson, whether he realizes it or no, relies on Sherlock now. For this little service, this small thing. He can’t _not._

 It goes on, and on, and now more often than not Sherlock opens his eyes at six o’clock to see John’s familiar features on level with his. The extra-long pillow John favours has two matching dents and patches of drool. It’s…a bit really not good but Sherlock cannot, for the life of him, seem to cease indulging. 

He can’t stop; he’s become addicted. 

It’s a curious thing, what a man’s mind will do for him when he discovers a pleasure source, an oasis of sorts. How he’ll go to any length to justify it, to continue it, unabated, to keep it fast and close by him. And geniuses are no exception, no. 

Sherlock briefly considers drugging John’s nightly tea to ensure he won’t wake till after Sherlock clears out…but he can’t bring himself to do that, either. 

He’ll have to take his chances, then. It’s quite stressful, the feeling that any night might be the last night. It’s mildly humiliating to acknowledge that the warmth of John Watson’s hand within his own is something sacred and precious. Beyond and above the work. Singular. 

It goes on, and on, and on, endlessly; he’s no longer bothering to justify why it might be this way or to simply attempt to go cold-turkey without or even consider seriously any of the usual approaches he’d take to protect himself from something likely to be dreadfully bad for him in the long road. No, he _wants_ it to go on, with all his debatable heart. For as long as it can, he desires it. And if that makes him a selfish bastard, simply because he hopes like hell John Watson will suffer from nightmares for the remainder of his days, then so be it. Sherlock knows he’s a bit selfish, a bit wrapped up in his own head. He knows it. 

“…ey. Hey. Sherlock. Sherlock.” 

When he jolts into wakefulness it’s 6:03 a.m. and it’s raining softly and John Watson is regarding him with sleepy blue eyes, soft but clear of telltale throbbing red veins. There’s no bags under them; there’s no irritable frown that often follows on the heels of John’s nightmares. There’s just a faint curl upward of his mobile lips, right at the corners, and a soft as rough velvet just-now-awaking voice that could seduce bees from the hive. 

“..ngh,” Sherlock replies, pointlessly. “…Yes?” 

Goes stone still, seeing as he clearly has John’s hand captured. It’s lying between them, just below the shared pillow: a bloody corpse to be deduced. Hasn’t let go once, not since three. He stares wordlessly, transfixed at the sight of very relaxed bed mate, and waits for the boom to fall. For it will. Like bloody a tonne of bloody bricks, it will fall. 

“Um,” John essays, ahem-ing as he clears his throat. The tiny smile grows brighter. “Er. Thanks, mate.” 

He barely dips his chin in a grateful almost-nod and the movement shifts his jaw close enough that a simple matching lunge on Sherlock’s part would have them joined in mutual lip-lock. He swallows quite painfully, shuts his eyes briefly to wipe the image or at least attempt it, and opens them ever so slowly and reluctantly to stare again. This close up John’s seen to have fine delicate small pores and a morning shadow of scruff, blond as sand, all over his chin and down his gorgeous neck, and Sherlock can see every millimeter of his just-licked lips, his touselled, tangled hair, and the shape of his bones and the sheathing of flesh and fine hairs that encases them. John’s got an elegantly shaped skull beneath beckoning skin. His skin is eminently touchable. Sherlock flinches, tightening his fingers unconsciously about John’s to resist the urge to do exactly that—to touch, uninvited. 

…And the bed—it assaults his nostrils. It smells so good, just like the two of them, he might swoon from sheer sensory overload. If he doesn’t simply die first, crushed underneath the weight of his only friend’s fond gaze. 

Sherlock despairs.  

“You, er,” John murmurs as he shifts even closer, crowding Sherlock’s tense length to the brink of the mattress, “you were…dreaming, Sherlock. I heard you.” 

“…Yes?” 

_Was_ he? Mayhap. Mayhap he recalls surfacing to the pathetic sound of his own small cries, his own whimpers. Maybe he remembers relaxing again into Morpheus’s arms, safe in the knowledge John’s gotten firm hold of him, the blissful feeling of his long questing fingers interlaced between John’s hard knuckles, the indescribably marvellous feel of the flat of his hand hot and damp, palm in palmer’s touch to John’s broad capable one. Life lines, heart lines, matching up like clockwork cog wheels ticking despite the disparity in sizes.  He’s been known to suffer still from nightmares, too. Again, it’s not that he’s inhuman; he simply just doesn’t want to have it rule him, his humanity. He’s lost enough ground already, has he not? Just to being good mates to John Watson, learning how, the right and proper procedure. But…the fact remains. He can’t afford any more stretch, any more elastic. He’ll snap, he just knows it. 

The most logical option would be to run. Running is something he’s fabulous at; he excells at the chase—and also the flee, the duck-and-hide, the valour-in-reverse end of it. But…but.

“Actually,” John whispers, “it was a bad dream. A nightmare. I know about those, Sherlock. Believe me.” 

John’s moving, moving infinitesimally slowly, and Sherlock sees it all coming a mile away, what’s happening to them. Between them. Can’t not. Can’t not tread those steps, either; can’t not pick that lock, can’t _not_ ease his way down into sweaty, tossed-about bedding and cling for life, for love, nightly. Can’t leave go of that hand, ever. Can’t move an inch to stop this mutual disaster, this miraculous event, this monumental unheard-of stride into the great unknown. Can’t stop, can’t stop—no. He’s an addict. All this happening, what’s been going on for months now, from the start, really. Cannot. Turn his head, deflect, avoid, strike out or…or any other single action other than sigh joyfully into John’s lips finally when they brush his own. 

“Brilliant,” he sighs when it’s done with, that first one. Tentative and gentle, then moving to sloppy and hot-wet, it’s all the best snogs Sherlock’s not had yet, wrapped up in a giant red bow. The first of many, he hopes. No; he _knows_. 

“John? Brilliant.” It’s benediction; Sherlock can’t help but approve wholeheartedly, if this is how it’s to be in the future. 

“Uh-huh,” John grins, blasts him incidentally with a waft of morning breath and Sherlock hardly cares a rap, squirming himself closer to the centre of the mattress and more atop John than he already is. 

“I thought so, too,” John goes on, and Sherlock can hear the accompanying  smile, even as his still-tired eyes slide shut despite him. “But, hey,” John chirps cheerily; Sherlock vibrates with the happy shrug. “Sure took you long enough. Genius.” 

Here he pauses a beat, the skin about his eyes crinkling mischievously when Sherlock deigns to lift his heavy passion-weighted lids and raises a slashy, lazy eyebrow in enquiry. 

“What?” Sherlock demands. He’s greeted by a John who’s clearly chipper, no sign of any lingering nightmares about him. “What?” Sherlock repeats, and can’t not smile in return.

 “To sort it, genius. Dumb arse, more like. Did you really believe I never noticed you, Sherlock? All that time?” He pecks Sherlock’s curling upper lip right the indent, then nips it playfully. “All that time,” he purrs, “and I, at least, am privy to your methods. Silly git. Who d’you think is the sleep expert here, hey? Doctor, Sherlock. _Doctor_.” 

He snorts himself into a vastly superior giggle and Sherlock can’t even be insulted, he’s so taken aback and, well, impressed. 

“Man of medicine; know a thing or two about nightmares, don’t you think? Sleep deprivation, too.” John crows. Hugs Sherlock with a rib-cracking grip. “Hullo, teddy bear. Hullo, my own personal sleep aide—welcome.”

“What?!”

“Glad you’ve finally gotten on board, Sherlock,” John cracks up completely at the look on Sherlock’s face. “Took—took your own—sweet—t-time, didn’t you, though?” He’s laughing so hard Sherlock’s hackles rise right up with a vengeance. “Isn’t it always the way with you smart ones. Sodding oblivious sometimes.” 

“What, **what**?” Sherlock’s appalled, so much so he nearly breaks John’s thumb gripping it. “You— _you_ set me up, _didn’t_ you? You did, you little twat!” 

“Well…yes,” John smirks. “Yes, it certainly appears that way, doesn’t it?’ Smirks against Sherlock’s mouth, so that’s nowhere near as awful as it could be. “Had to pay you back for the leg, didn’t I? Quid pro quo, mate. This isn’t your monopoly.” 

“I—“ Sherlock says, and then stops. “ _You_ —“ he begins again…and halts. “Bother!”

John turns the smirking half-kiss into a real one with a slip of the lip and a tongue-twist. Sherlock forgets whatever it was he wanted to rant about completely. It’s early yet; he’s feeling very lazy and somnolent. John’s warm, like tea and toast, hot and buttered. He sinks back into the mattress from where he’d started up on his elbow and lets all his incipient tantrum go for the nonce.

There’s better things on the dawn horizon at the moment than he’d thought there could be. Not the least of which is a decent night’s sleep. And sex. And likely then John will want him to eat more, keep up his energy for shagging. 

Bother bloody transport. It was rapidly becoming an area he could no longer happily ignore. 

 

  



End file.
